


Lies and Incentives

by linndechir



Category: Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Bloodplay, Breathplay, Frottage, M/M, Pre-Canon, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 07:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: Deckard doesn't care why Owen wants him to kill someone. He just doesn't like being lied to.





	Lies and Incentives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



When the door opened, Owen's hand hovered briefly over the gun he kept by his bed, but he relaxed as soon as he saw who it was that came in without even bothering to knock. Not that he had expected anyone else, but it never paid off to be careless.

“Did you actually use the front door for once?” Owen said. Deckard had made a habit over the years of breaking into Owen's hideouts, preferably in the middle of the night so he could startle Owen out of bed. Owen had never been quite sure if Deckard enjoyed the challenge or simply liked to remind Owen that he always found a weakness in his defences. But what was even more unusual was that Deckard didn't bother to reply with some snide comment while he locked the door behind him. Owen put down the tablet with plans he'd only been half paying attention to and sat up on his bed.

Deckard was wearing black tactical gear, too warm for the tropical climate, but Owen wasn't surprised that he'd come right from the job. A quick once-over revealed no limp, no serious-looking injuries, but there was a smaller wound on his left arm, blood seeping through the torn black fabric. Owen got up from the bed so he could fetch a first-aid kit from the bathroom and asked, “Do you need me to get a doctor?”

One of the joys of larger, private operations, Owen had learnt recently, was how much easier it was to find someone with medical skills without going to an actual hospital. But Deckard didn't seem particularly concerned with his injury. His eyes were on Owen, intent and not quite _furious_ – neither of them had that much of a temper – but Owen knew him well enough to tell when he was pissed off, even if he was rarely at the receiving end of that look.

“I'm not going to insult you by asking if he's dead,” Owen said carefully. He rarely worked with his brother – although it'd be more accurate in this case to say that Deckard had worked _for_ him – but sending someone as reliable as Deckard to do a job was oddly relaxing. Owen liked it when things went off without a hitch, and Deckard was nothing if not terrifyingly efficient. With anyone else, no matter how qualified, there was always the possibility of failure, but with Deckard, it seemed like an impossible thought to entertain.

He kept his eyes on Deckard when his brother came towards him, his steps measured and purposeful and his eyes still gleaming with something that Owen was fairly sure would have filled anyone else with fear. But he'd never been afraid of his brother, not when he'd been a child and Deckard had seemed like an invincible giant, not when he'd been a teenager and Deckard had already killed people for a living – not that the Army had called it that –, not when he followed in his footsteps and realised just how good Deckard was at his job. He wasn't afraid now either, not even when Deckard all but barrelled into him, his right hand snagging the fabric of Owen's t-shirt before grabbing him by the throat and slamming him back into the next wall.

Owen let out a groan when the air was pushed out of his lungs. He was starting to suspect what this was about – Deckard had always enjoyed a good fight for the sake of it, but not usually when he came home bleeding from a mission. That was when he tended to want a quiet evening, a glass of wine, and a blowjob.

“You told me he double-crossed you,” Deckard snapped. He was close enough now that Owen could smell his sweat and his blood, and that was almost as heady as the touch of Deckard's hand, the hard pressure of his body against Owen's. 

“Ah,” he said and didn't bother to bite back his grin. He should have known that Deckard would figure out that there had been more to that story. “Well, he would have eventually. Can't trust those cartel guys, no matter how useful they can be.”

Despite himself, Deckard let out a brief laugh at that, but he didn't loosen his grip. He wasn't choking Owen, just pinning him in place with an ease that already made Owen hard. There were a dozen things, most of which he'd learnt from his brother, that he could have done to try and free himself – especially considering that Deckard was injured, and that the side-arms in his thigh holsters were well within Owen's reach – but what would have been the point of that? 

“Any reason you didn't tell me the truth?” Deckard asked. For someone who'd spend almost as much of his life spying on people as he had killing them, Deckard had always been incorrigibly direct, and far too irritated by people not telling him the truth.

Owen looked away, over Deckard's shoulder, and swallowed, feeling his throat move against Deckard's palm. The simple answer would have been that he'd lied because it had seemed easier, or because he'd made a habit of lying to people whether he needed to or not. That wasn't the entire truth, though, and another lie might have angered Deckard enough to make him leave for a while.

“You were more likely to help me if you thought you had to protect me,” Owen said. After all, that was what Deckard had always done – protect Owen, even long after he'd needed it. “If I'd simply told you I was expanding my operations and he was in the way, you might have told me to send someone else. And I didn't trust anyone else with this. I needed the best.”

Deckard sneered at him, his voice still sharp when he said, “I would have just insisted you pay me in that case.” 

Owen couldn't help but laugh, even though there was no trace of humour in his brother's eyes. Unsurprisingly, it only irritated Deckard further, and he tightened his grip on Owen's throat until Owen let out a breathless whimper.

“I don't like you lying to me,” Deckard growled, his face almost touching Owen's. “Do you really think I give a shit _why_ you want someone dead? I'd kill this whole damn island if you just asked me to.”

Owen's throat ached, his head was buzzing with pressure and the need to breathe, but he made no attempt to fend Deckard off. He wasn't even sure if it was the lack of air that made his head swim or Deckard's words, that angry, infallible devotion. He wondered how he could have forgotten even for a moment that he didn't _need_ to manipulate Deckard the way he did everyone else.

“Maybe I wanted to see if I could still lie to you,” he said. When they'd been kids, he'd sometimes tricked Deckard into doing things for him simply because it had been more fun than asking directly. It had already pissed Deckard off back then, so Owen shouldn't be surprised that it still pissed him off twenty years later.

Deckard looked like he would have punched him if his other arm hadn't been injured. Owen brushed his fingers over the blood-soaked fabric, watched him flinch.

“Let me patch you up.” He'd never particularly liked seeing Deckard in pain. Not the bruises on his knuckles or a split lip after a fight – whether with Owen or with someone else –, those he liked well enough, but any kind of injury that reminded him that even Deckard was still human irritated Owen. He much preferred to think of his brother as invulnerable, more a force of nature than a man.

For a moment Deckard seemed to consider it, before he shook his head.

“It can wait.” 

His hand slid to the back of Owen's neck now, his grip just as tight as before. Owen didn't wait for him to do more than that before he leant in to kiss him. His lungs were still burning, but catching his breath could wait when he had Deckard right in front of him, bloodied and angry and still _here_ when he could just as well taken off to brood somewhere else until the next time they ran into each other. He dug his fingers into the laceration on Deckard's arm – where a bullet had grazed him, most likely – and used the moment when Deckard flinched and gasped in pain to push him backwards.

They stumbled onto the bed together, limbs entangled, both of them already out of breath even before Owen's teeth burrowed into Deckard's lips. It wasn't in any way comfortable – Deckard was still wearing a kevlar vest and far too much gear on his belt, but Owen had no intention of getting up now to change anything about that.

“The whole island, hm?” Owen asked between kisses and laughed. His hands were fumbling with Deckard's belt, but his fingers were slick with blood and it took far longer than it should have. “I don't believe you. You'd ask for an explanation at least.”

“Possibly.” Deckard shifted underneath him, in what Owen realised only a moment later was a rather inefficient attempt to help Owen undress him. He had to reach down himself to open his belt and trousers, then let out a deep sigh when Owen's slick fingers pulled his cock out. “I'd still prefer it to your daft games.”

“Would you believe me if I said I was sorry?” Owen grinned against Deckard's lips and only didn't laugh because his brother kissed him again. It was too warm for any of this, even this late in the evening the air was hot and humid and they were both far too dressed, but he didn't pull back even one inch. Deckard opened the light slacks Owen was wearing far more easily than he had his own trousers, and his grip was almost punishingly tight when he took Owen's cock in his hand. 

“I'd break your jaw if you did,” he said the next time Owen's lips left his, but the corner of his mouth was quirked up. Deckard's anger was nothing if not consistent – he either started an actual fight, or he let it go.

Owen shifted on top of him so he could rub his cock against his brother's, slicked up a little with the blood that remained on his hand. He'd fucked countless people in his life he didn't care to remember, but nothing he'd ever done with any of them compared even to this, to Deckard's mouth still angry and hard on his own, Deckard's cock sliding against his with just enough friction to be frustratingly good, Deckard's hand slipping under his shirt to leave bruises on his back.

He wanted to say more, wanted to hear his brother tell him that he'd do every single damn thing Owen would ever ask of him, but he didn't want to stop kissing him. And he doubted Deckard would have let him stop, the way he grabbed Owen by the back of his neck and held him close, the way he bit him every time Owen pulled away even a little.

Deckard was so wound up that he came before Owen did, his moans muffled by Owen's lips. Owen was briefly tempted to flip him over and fuck him – Deckard might have objected a bit, but more out of habit than because he didn't want Owen to – but Deckard's come made Owen's cock slide more easily over his skin and it felt far too good to stop now.

“You should really come up with different ways to piss me off,” Deckard gasped against Owen's lips.

“You know, that feels like the kind of thing you might regret saying,” Owen said breathlessly and kissed him again before Deckard could reply. His brother's kisses weren't any less rough now than they'd been before, and he kept kissing him until Owen came with a low moan, making a mess of the bed and both their clothes, but then Deckard had already bled so much over the sheets that it hardly made a difference now. Owen stayed on top of him, his head resting on Deckard's chest, his brother's hand squeezing the back of his neck lightly. His clothes stuck to his body, but he doubted he'd have any trouble talking Deckard into joining him in the shower. Later, that was.

“Are you going to let me stitch you up now that you've calmed down?” Owen asked once he could breathe evenly again. He pulled the fabric carefully from his brother's bleeding arm. The wound looked worse than it was, but it still needed to be stitched up and bandaged sooner rather than later. Deckard gave a low hum of agreement, his eyes half closed when Owen sat up to look at him. His brother had never managed to stay angry at him for very long. He could hold a grudge for a lifetime, but when it came to Owen, his anger tended to burn out quickly, after a few punches or a rough fuck, or more often than not both.

Owen had never seen a reason to be afraid of Deckard, because sooner or later all their arguments ended just like this, in bed or on the floor or against a wall. Even if he didn't need to lie to Deckard to get him to do what he wanted, that still wasn't a very good incentive for him to stop doing it either.


End file.
